


it looks ugly, but it’s clean

by charmtion



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Violence, F/M, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:19:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23721478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charmtion/pseuds/charmtion
Summary: Sansa strokes a thumb across the newest, blueish bloom on Jon’s cheek—“Rings,” he says quietly. “She… she wears a lot of rings.”—and there is no laughter now. There is just a burning, searing, silent ache.It’s unspoken, this arrangement that exists between them: a wordless understanding that Sansa will never, ever ask about the bruises, the cuts, the day-old blood on his lip—and Jon will never, ever tell her who left such marks on his skin.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 130
Kudos: 212





	1. bruise

**Author's Note:**

> > Blame this on listening to Hozier’s [Cherry Wine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5I4iwiDK_lQ) one too many times (lyrics form the title and a few are scattered throughout the text). There are no explicit depictions of violence included here; nonetheless, this story discusses aspects of it in a domestic setting and explores its semi-immediate aftermath— _gently_.

“It’s rare.”

His voice, some faraway thread from the living room. Worked a little charm into it; but they both know that there is no distracting from what it is he is speaking about so sweetly.

There never is.

Still, Sansa humours his pretence. Props up his act as she shuts a cupboard in the kitchen. Tries to ignore the tremble of her fingers on the tea-cups. Breathes through her nose — through the _rage_ — till her heartbeat has slowed up.

“What is?”

“The blood,” he says. “I promise.”

Lets it hang there for half a breath: that promise latent in its lie. Tears pricking her eyes, burning their salt into her throat. But she chases them up and out of her voice; calls something back to him — a little too brightly.

Makes the tea. Extra spoonful of sugar, stirs it into his cup. He’ll complain. Pat a palm to his flat, hard belly and sketch some jest about watching his weight. She’ll laugh. Sip her tea, try not to look too hard at the bruises on his face.

“Fuck.”

“Sans?” Little louder from the living room now. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah — _yes_.”

Picks up the spoon she’s dropped. Clatters it into the sink. Makes enough noise to muffle up her cursing, the tears that have somehow managed to leak. Feathering down her cheeks: those little salt-streak trails, burning with the useless anger on her tongue.

*

Shouldn’t have come here. Unfair of him to turn up on her doorstep as he is like to do. Jon knows it. He _knows_ it. But he can’t seem to stop.

Waits where he always waits in the aftermath of his arrival to her apartment. Corner of the charcoal sofa, elbows balanced on his thighs. Hulked over — as if he’s trying to hide. Blend in. Not stand out. Works at home sometimes: black walls there to match his monotone clothes, red accents same dark hue as rust — as blood.

Never seems to work here. Too bright. Too good. All light walls and lemon-coloured cushions. He stands out against it all. Too dark. Too rust-streaked. But Sansa doesn’t seem to mind. Welcomes it, if anything. Welcomes _him_ — God knows why.

Can hear her humming to herself as she fixes them some tea. Little thread of a tune winding its way into the living room. Washing over him — aching eyes, sore lip, tired heart — till he begins to loosen up on the sofa. Lean back into the cushions, run a hand up and down the roll-top arm.

“Milk?”

“Aye,” he says as if he needs to answer it. “Just a bit, Sans.”

There’s a mirror over the fireplace opposite the charcoal sofa. Fern on the mantlepiece just brushing its bottom edge, feathering it in reflected streaks of green. Can just see the top of his head amongst those fronds: dark curls in disarray. Knows if he leant back a little more, strained his neck just a bit straighter, he’d be able to see his face.

But he doesn’t want to see that. Not now, not yet. Only wants to see her. Pretend a little while longer that her eyes are just fixed on a random point of his face — and not the blood still peppering his lip.

*

“Tea.”

No need to announce it. Just like there was no need to ask him if he’d like milk. She knows he has milk. Just a drop. Just enough to muddy the dark surface up a bit. She _knows_ it. But it’s the act they move through: the motions, the cues. Mm — and she will play her part for however long he needs her to play it.

Plays it as best she can. But it’s a tricky line to tread. More times than not she’s had to bite her tongue, look away as he sips at his tea — tries to keep himself from flinching as the steam burns up the clotted blood on his lip. Always hard to watch that. Flicker of pain finding its way back across his brow even now, even _here_ in this little safe haven she’s tried to build for him in her apartment, her life — her _heart_. 

“Looks ugly,” he says softly. “But it’s clean.”

Realises she’s folded her part. Failed to act out her cues, her stage directions. Her eyes aren’t meant to be on that split lip — not yet. They’re meant to be somewhere else. Ferns on the mantlepiece, lemon-coloured cushion in her lap, the cup between her fingers, his ink-dark eyes. Meant to be _anywhere_ else — not fixed on the one thing they act out this warped little play in order to avoid.

Back again: that useless fucking anger. Never knows what to do with it. Swallow it back, sound it out? Mm, tried all that.

Done what she is _supposed_ to do. Charities and phone-numbers scribbled on the backs of business cards. Reports of injuries — detailed, so fucking painfully _detailed_ — written up in her delicate hand, kept safe in her desk-drawer for the day she hopes will one day come. The day he’ll ask her for help. The day she’ll move the earth to get him free of those crimson claws that rake him up and —

“Sansa.”

Blinks at him, smiles — too brightly. “Yes, honey?”

“I — I don’t want you to fuss.” Looks at her, smiles softly. “Okay?”

She nods: heart breaking, bleeding.

*

“No fuss.”

Hurts him, the way she says it so softly, the way those shadows cloud up her eyes for half a heartbeat. Blue skies clear soon enough; but it stays in him, her hurt — it always does.

They drink their tea. They talk. Gentle conversations. Robb’s birthday, the restaurant Arya’s booked for the surprise dinner they’re throwing him. Jobs and promotions and Theon’s new girlfriend. Jon likes this one more than the last; Sansa remains indifferent. They laugh. They remember their childhood: apple trees, Bran breaking his arm, all the stray dogs Ned used to try and hide from Catelyn.

“Five, wasn’t it?”

Sansa smiles. “Six.” Extends her fingers, ticks them off: one by one. “Ghost, Grey Wind, Summer, Shaggy, Nym, and my little — ”

“— Lady!” Feels his smile grow broader. “Even your mum liked Lady.”

“She was a good girl.”

“Your — ”

“ _No_ , not my mum.” Sansa rolls her eyes, well ahead of him — as always. “Lady.” Raises a brow at him now. “Speaking of my mum… she’s getting quite offended you keep ducking out of family Sundays, Jon Snow.” Lifts the other brow. “Thinks you’ve found superior Yorkshire puddings elsewhere.”

Puts his hand to his heart. “Never!”

“She misses you,” says it so softly he strains to hear it. “They all miss you.”

He nods: heart breaking, bleeding.

“I miss them, too.”

*

Act Two, this’d be. Empty tea-cups carried back to the kitchen, placed gently in the sink. Jon following her: centre stage, then veering left. Finding a seat at the little table she’s got against the window. Looks so big sitting at it — he always does.

People used to find him a bit scary growing up. Something to do with the surly look he often had in those days, the weight he carried on his shoulders: all the worries of the world. Only got worse as he got older, bigger, stronger. Boys tried to pick fights with him in nightclub queues, bouncers sized him up at bars.

Always had bloody knuckles as a teenager. Busted lip. Damage he meted out was a lot worse, though. Something in him: violent, hungry — _hurting_. Dad saw it before anyone else did. Took him under his wing. Fighting stopped after that.

“Hold still.”

No need to say it — he’s sitting stock-still, waiting patiently. Obedient to every deft movement of her fingers as she angles his face up to the light. Damp cotton-wool nipped between her nails, pressed gently to the first little cut she sees just above his right eyebrow. Hums beneath her breath as she cleans it.

Tries to count how many times she has done this. Always been one of the family — so his hurts have always been hers to bear, to balm, to brush away with tentative fingertips and tea-tree.

Used to be fair, at least. Fair fights, fair game, fair distribution of hurts to him, her brothers, the boys they’d been scrapping with. Years and years of that — but it’s different now. Mm, it’s not so fair anymore.

“Remember that kid who got hold of a knuckle-duster?” she says conversationally. “Bashed your face up proper with it, didn’t he?” Strokes a thumb across the newest, blueish bloom on his cheek as he nods. “This bruise reminds me a little of that.”

 _Years ago_ , she expects him to smirk and say. _Give me a rematch now, I’d rip that thing right off his knuckles, show him up and_ …

Expects him to say something like that. Something that’ll make her laugh. Brush off her careful comment. Keep the act spinning out till the play’s grand finale —

“Rings,” he says quietly. “She… she wears a lot of rings.”

— and there is no laughter now. There is just a burning, searing, silent ache.

*

Wants to cower in his chair, hide himself away. Flush of white-hot shame in his chest at what she must think about him: weak and pathetic and stupid and worthless and —

“Jon.”

But he is awash in the heat of it: that shame, that flustered sense of failure. Size of him — the fucking _size_ of him — and he’s got more bruises than he ever did as a scrappy boy. More cuts and scars and burns than he could ever count.

“Jon,” she says, a little stronger now. “Look at me.”

Folding forward even as her fingertips prop up his face, cotton-wool still pressed to the newest blue-grey bloom on his cheek. Eyes tight-shut; but she doesn’t let go of him.

Holds him. Gently, gently — so _gently_ that he can’t quite break, shatter, split off into a million bits of glass. Wants to — he _wants_ to — but she works to hold him together just as much as he aches to fall apart.

“Look at me, honey.”

“Sans — ”

“Please… Jon, _please_.”

Burns him, the lung-aching breath he takes now. Like he’s bursting up from the bottom of the sea, saltwater stinging his eyes as he blinks them open.

Light round her head and she’s an angel — a fucking _angel_ — loose hair all haloed-up till it burns red, red, red. But it’s a good red. Not rust and wrath and day-old blood and painted claws raking at his skin.

It’s _good_.

Autumn leaves and strawberries fresh-picked from a field and copper shimmering in a patch of sunlight and his fingers are slipping into it and she is folded round him and he is crying into her neck and he has never felt more broken, never felt more together, lost, found, saved, helpless — all at once.

*

“You’re not going back, Jon.”

Damp voice at her throat. “I — God, I’m so _sorry_ , Sans.”

“I won’t let you go back,” knits it into his skin; her lips, her voice, every little part of her being. “I _can’t_ let you go back.” Then it breaks in her: that wave, that burst of fear and relief and ache and hurt. Bursts. Breaks. Renders her to beg. “Please, honey — _please_.”

Arms around her tightening as he nods. Cries, then — she can’t stop it. Quiet little sobs that tear up her throat, make her shoulders shake. His face against her neck, still. Nodding. Nodding — but she needs him to say it. Needs to _know_ it.

Hand on his nape, other lost in his ink-dark curls as she tests the weight of a few words on her tongue — but he answers her question before she has even asked it.

“Okay.”

Broken, bleeding — but her heart is still beating. His is, too. And it will heal. It _will_ — because today is the day she never thought would come. The day he’s asked her for help without ever using a question mark. The day she’ll move the fucking earth to get him free. The day that marks all the days to come where she’ll work to _keep_ him free.

Always.

Forever.

Always, _always_.

*

“Thank you.”

But she’s shaking her head even as he’s saying it. Opening her arms to him and he is sliding into her bed and she is an anchor suddenly, grounding him from the wide, black sea of nightmares he’s just wrenched awake from.

Humming against the top of his head. Cheek pressed to her heart, soft rise and fall of her breasts cushioning him slowly back to sleep. Fingers in his hair, twining, threading — gently, gently. Warm and good and _Sansa_ and his heart is so full it hurts. A good hurt that outweighs every ache and agony etched upon his skin.

Shifts his cheek a little deeper into her chest, feels her fingertips ghosting up and down his nape. His hand on her belly. Narrow little waist mapped beneath the span of his palm. Strokes it now, very softly.

“I can go back to the sofa if you — ”

Presses a kiss to his temple. “You’ll stay here… with me.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Feels her belly dip a little as his fingers tighten a fraction. “But — ”

“No fuss,” she says softly — and he hears the smile in her voice. “Okay?”

“No fuss.”

She rocks him a little closer in her arms, adjusts herself to sink deeper into the pillows. Speck of pre-dawn light somewhere in the square of sky showing at the windows; but it’s still inky enough to ease them both to sleep.

Fights it for a moment, that heavy roll of his lids — fights it till he finds her hand, lifts it to his face, surrenders to the safety she has built for him here: in her apartment, her life, her arms — her _heart_.

“Thank you,” whispers it again even as she shushes him sleepily. “Thank you, Sans.”

Falls asleep like that: held together by her hands, soft breath stirring his hair, her palm pressed gently to his lips — warm and good and _safe_.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> I think as a writer I rarely challenge myself to explore things outside my immediate remit. Especially in the realms of _ASOIAF_ I tend to home in on the stories and sufferings of female POVs because that is where I am (unashamedly) at my most comfortable; this fic presented an obvious deviation from that—and a chance to delve into a very real reality that I could easily imagine Jon experiencing if he’d have followed show-canon tropes for his love interest(s)… that is all on _that_. There could be another chapter or two in this universe if there is the interest for it; but if not, I am content with this end. Hope one or two of you feel the same! Love and light, honeys. ❤️
> 
>  **p.s.** a link [here](https://www.mankind.org.uk/help-for-victims/how-we-can-help/) \+ [here](https://www.womensaid.org.uk/domestic-abuse-directory/) for help if you ever need it x


	2. bleed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
> 
> 
>   
> 
>
>> Thank you for being so respectful and insightful in your comments on the first part of this little fic. I felt so humbled reading them. Mention of interest in another chapter or two in this verse… _so_ —here we are: the journey to healing... 🌸

Gone when she wakes: the weight, the warmth of him. Indent in the mattress beside her. Sansa puts her hand to it, finds it cool to the touch.

Lurch between her ribs — a slash of white-hot panic.

“Fuck.”

Rushes up from the tangled sheets, steps through the sunlight splashed across the floorboards as she leaves the bedroom door ajar. Stands for a second in the hallway. Little rasp of breath half-caught in her throat — listening, _listening_ — till she hears a creak from the living room.

“Jon?”

Barely looks up at her as she steps toward him, touches her hand tentatively to the arm of the sofa. He’s sitting on it, perched at the very edge; trembling fingers trying to make knots of his shoelaces.

“I’ve got to go back.”

An edge to his voice that she tries to ignore. “Jon — ”

“Sansa, I have to.” Laces half-tied, wrenching up from the sofa. “She’ll be worried sick. She’ll be — ”

Loses it, the timbre of his throat spun out thready. He is gasping now. Shallow little breaths shaky as his hands. Wants to touch him, reach out, slot a grip on his elbow, prop him up — but she can’t do that. Can’t move too quickly. So she waits — shivering a little in her sleeping-shirt, tired heart a ragged lamb’s bleat in her ears — she waits.

*

Makes an effort to get a hold of himself. Puts his hands in his pockets — deep — that way he can pretend they aren’t shaking.

“I have to go back — I _have_ to.”

There is a bruise on his wrist. One he’d forgotten about till it brushes against his jeans, makes him wince. Glances down at it. Wishes he hadn’t because—

“Is this what you want?”

“I don’t — ”

“Is this what you want from me?”

“I— _please_ Da— I don’t want it!”

—suddenly everything is clouded in confusion. There is sunlight dappling his shoes. He finds his gaze fixed on the shadow-shapes toying at the leather, the laces. Follows them: down onto the fluffy rug, up into soft blue eyes.

“Sansa,” he says — and he almost sounds surprised. “I… have to go back.”

“Let’s sit a minute,” she says softly. “Hmm?” Steps around him, sinks onto the sofa, smiles up at him in a way that breaks his heart, makes it bleed. “Let’s sit a minute — and then we can decide what to do.”

 _We_.

All at once, his heart doesn’t feel quite so broken anymore.

*

It takes the best part of the morning to gentle him down. Shoes back off, hands out of his pockets — wrapped round a mug of coffee instead. There is a bruise circling his wrist: dark, ragged as an ink-blot. She tries her best to keep her eyes away from it.

“Are you angry with me?”

Looks up from her reflection in the coffee-cup to find him watching her, head tilted to one side. Rueful smile beneath the shadow of his beard; but she can see the tension piquing the corners of his eyes, the edges of his lips.

“No,” she says. “I could never be angry with you, Jon.”

Darts to the floor, then back to her steady stare. “Never?”

“Never.”

Slides from him then: rockfall of tension slipping from his shoulders, his eyes, his lips — wash of water drifting airless to the earth below. Fingers retightening on his coffee-cup, clutching it to his chest. Tides of his breathing slower now, a softer ebb-and-flow to his voice than she’s heard in months — in _years_.

“It just got away from me,” he murmurs. “The panic.”

Cradles her cup in her lap — carefully. “Anything set it off?”

“Texts. Calls. Voicemails.”

“From…?”

“Aye.” Rubs his thumb between his eyes, brows lifting. “All night.”

 _Keep them_ , she wants to say. _Evidence. We can file a report. Get a_ — 

But now is not the time for that. Wants it to be. Wishes it was. Mm, _wishes_ it was as cut-and-dry as textbook cases make it seem. Abuser. Victim. Leaving. Reports. Convictions. Restraint orders. Moving on. A short, straight line from fearful to free — like one is mutually exclusive of the other.

Real cases aren’t like that. Because cases are people and lives and eyes ink-dark as the bruises marking up wrists and cheeks and hearts. Messy and complicated and a clockwork to unpick and wind back up and set ticking again and — _and_ Sansa knows this — she _knows_ it. She’s read up on it, done her research, kept colour-coded notes that no-one else will ever see; but that was all about facts and figures and case-studies and _statistics_.

This is different.

Because Jon is not a statistic. Not to her. _Never_ to her.

Dawns on her then, how little she really knows, how hard this is going to be. But she’ll learn, listen — she’ll _try_. For him.

 _Always_ for him.

“We can talk now,” she says slowly. “Or we can eat something, whatever you’d — ”

“Can we do both?”

She nods, smiles — brightly. “We can do both, Jon.”

*

Hadn’t realised he was hungry till they sit to eat at the little table against the window in her kitchen. Lemon pasta. Pale midday sunlight. Everything bright and easy and light — twist of red pepper flakes warming up his tongue. Looks at them a moment and—

_where are you? x_

_where the fuck are you?_

_answer me. now._

_send me a photo of where you are. you have 5 mins._

_I hope you know how much I fucking hate you_.

_step outside and call me. NOW._

—for a moment the fork trembles in his hand. Eyes fixed on the tucked-up strands of spaghetti on its prongs, the dust of little red dots. Red, red, red — but it’s a good red. Warm and good and Sansa made it for him and she didn’t even get angry when he tried to help, dropped the lemon-zester and broke it.

It’s _good_.

Takes a breath — deep — tries to find some sort of centre-point amidst the wide, black sea of panic. Another breath. The fork steadies in his hand; he lifts it to his lips, smiles at Sansa just before he takes the bite.

Lets the red wash up over his tongue, warm him down: throat, belly — all the way through.

“I’m sorry.”

Quirks her head to one side. “For what?”

“Breaking that lemon-zester,” ebbs from him: an admission, a confession, a peace-keeping gesture in the hopes of avoiding conflict. Never quite mastered that; still, he tries. “I’m so fucking clumsy. It just — ”

“Jon, it’s okay.”

Risks a glance at her then. Finds her smiling at him. A _real_ smile — open as the sky. He puts down his fork. She mirrors him.

“Just a zester,” she says softly. “We can get a new one.”

 _We_.

Slowly, his hand comes to rest on the tabletop: palm-up, unfurling like a fist — a flower. Her fingers glide petal-soft, slip between his own.

The wide, black sea pulls away.

*

Day or two before he’s up to leaving the shelter of her apartment. Or maybe it’s four — or maybe it’s six. Even then, they keep to short walks at first. Round the block, pathways beside the canal. Trees dripping blossom and the world is good.

Sansa watches as Jon comes to that same realisation himself — slowly.

Little things at first. Crease in his brow smoothing out, jaw going a little slack beneath the shadow of his beard. Tension slipping from him like it did that first morning: a rockfall tumbling loose, sweeping a hillside clean. He stands a little straighter, shoulders squarer — he owns his space. He _owns_ it.

What it sets in her to see it is something unholy, savage. For all her gentleness with him, she is filled with hate — hate, hate, _hate_ — at whoever sought to strip it all away from him.

Chance encounters on their blossom-dappled walks seem to seek that rage out, stoke it up till her gut is a pit of flame and fury.

Head of silver-grey highlights glinting in the early sun. Someone holding a coffee-cup, nails painted dark as blood. Wide eyes bursting like spring flowers in a pale face. Sansa doesn’t see them as a kaleidoscope of colours; she sees them as something — some _one_ — singular.

Someone who is beautiful. Beautiful — and terrible.

But that someone is a statistic now, logged away in a database. Evidence turned over, records seized. An active case: a statistic — an ugly, terrible, _violent_ statistic. That’s all she is: a fucking _statistic_. That’s it. That’s all.

Jon is not just a statistic.

He has a _story_. A story that is his and it is real and it is evolving and Sansa will help him tell it. She’ll move the fucking earth to help him tell it, shape it, weave it. Her rage is not a part of that — her hate belongs somewhere else. Somewhere far away from white-tipped branches and shoulders held wide as the smile on his face.

*

It’s slow, his healing. Tender. Aching. Like pressing down on a day-old bruise— 

“Cover it,” spat at him. “ _Cover_ it.”

“These sleeves aren’t — ”

“Get another shirt, then. Hurry _up_ , Jon.”

—not yet stained purple at the edges; but getting there. Hoping it might one day fade.

Quick look across the room, to the shades that tarry here in Sansa’s studio. Bent head — strawberries, autumn leaves — bathed in sunlight. Primrose. Lemon. Light and pretty and airy and free as the sketch of her paintbrush across the canvas.

Deep breath.

No hoping: he knows it will one day fade. No might, no maybe — it _will_.

Feels his eyes resting on her from his perch at the window-seat. Looks up, paintbrush stilling for a moment between her fingers.

“Jon?” she says — an afterthought to the gentle gaze she’s got rested on him, the gentle gaze that says all there is to say already. “You okay?”

He is quiet for a moment, sun-warmed and slow and caught up in the simple beauty of her skin. That scattering of freckles on her bare shoulder, the twist of scarlet hair come loose from the low bun at her nape. Lip caught between her teeth as she puts her brush down, wipes her palm across her paint-flecked dungarees.

“Jon?”

But he can’t quite speak yet. Doesn’t want to, either. Just wants to watch her, wade in this feeling — this realisation — suddenly weighing down on him like heavy water. Water, yes — sweeping him down one moment, buoying him up the next. Lets it take him: this ebb-and-flow, push, pull till he feels drunk on it. But he isn’t afraid of it. There is no panic. No burning lung-deep breaths and bursting from sand to surface.

Mm, none of that.

There is no wide, black sea.

There is just the ocean of her eyes.

“I’m okay,” he murmurs at last — and he smiles. “I’m good.”

*

She makes a sketch of him every day. Little squares of paper, cut-off canvas — swatches of ink, oil-paints, charcoal, blunt pencil. Hides it from him at first; steals glances at him as he frowns down at the dishes in the sink or falls asleep on the sofa, palm resting on his belly.

 _Portraits of Healing_ , she quietly coins them. His beard grows in each sketch, his smile — that grows, too.

One morning he offers to sit for her, save her from stealthy looks and frenzied eye-to-paper scribblings.

“Make me look noble,” he says — chin up, shoulders square. “Like a king.”

There is laughter in his voice, light of a jest sparking up his eyes. She rolls her own back at him, laughs along — doesn’t let slip what she wants to say. That he _is_ noble. He _is_ a fucking king. Strong and fragile and gentle and fierce and the best man she has ever met, ever known, ever lov— 

“Fuck.”

Ever _loved_.

“Sans?”

“Fine,” she says softly — swiftly. “Everything’s fine, honey.”

It _is_.

Life has found something of a rhythm. Old arrangement between them ripped up. Blank page, pen poised to write up a new one. Raw and unchartered and sometimes it’s easy and sometimes it’s fucking _hard_. But the bruises are fading and he is healing. Yes, there is a bleed or two: an episode, a panic attack, nightmares — but she is always there with a soft song to soothe him back to sleep.

Court case is coming up and things need signing and truths still hang unspoken on his tongue. Truths he’s not yet ready to tell. But she doesn’t mind that. How could she? God knows she has truths of her own kept secret as these fucking _Portraits of Healing_ used to be. Maybe one day she’ll share them, maybe she never will — all she knows is that where rage used to fuel her, love fires her now instead.

“There — like a king.”

He steps up behind her, leans to look at her little canvas. Slashes of charcoal: the cut-out silhouette of a warrior with the side-profile of a king. There are no bruises shadowing his cheek, his chin, his jaw, his lips — just shades of strength and softer edges.

“You like it?”

“I love it.”

They look at each other now. She smiles — skates in a thready breath as his eyes lift to her brow, as his fingers follow. He slips a strand of hair back from her skin, then lowers his mouth to it. Lingers there: a gentle kiss on her forehead.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. “Thank you, Sansa.”

She just nods, breathes him in: malt and woodsmoke and the cherry-blossom they walked beneath this morning.

*

Flutter wakes him. Like a thousand wings in his belly, blotting up between his ribs till his blood sings to their beat.

Sansa shifts her cheek from its perch on his chest, blinks up at him sleepily.

“You okay?”

He nods, opens his mouth to speak — but he laughs instead. A smoky chuckle half-swept to a sob in his throat. Puts his palm to his heart, feels it beat steady and slow and his laugh quietens to a smile. Sansa is on her elbow now, quirk in her brow as she looks at him — little frown that fades soon as she catches his smile, hefts her own.

“Jon?”

“What will I do now?” he asks in some heady burst of realisation: that he is _free_ — he is fucking free. “Where will I go?”

Muffled voice as she puts her mouth to his cotton tee shirt. “Mm, where will we go?”

 _We_.

But it’s different this time, the way she says it. The way it hangs on the air. Latent, heavy with more than sleep.

Thousand wings flitting to frenzy. Realises he is excited: grown man with fucking butterflies in his belly. Woken up by the want to laugh — not wrenched awake from the wide, black sea of nightmares and panic and venom and day-old blood painting him in another’s wrath.

There _is_ no wide, black sea.

Not anymore.

Sansa’s ocean eyes — that’s all there is, all there ever will be, and it’s good.

It’s _good_.

Like she senses it, like she _knows_. Lifts her head from his chest, props her chin there instead, gazes right up at him. Fingers in her hair now — strawberries and autumn leaves and sunlit copper — his thumb skating to roll across her cheekbone.

“Can we stay here?” he asks very softly. “Together?”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have two more chapters planned to tie up the threads and carry on the healing. Stick around if you like—and stay well!   
> Please. ❤️


	3. balm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > Sorry it’s been a little minute and a half since the last chapter; I have been away from all things fictional for a while (still am technically!) but I wound up writing this today so thought I’d share it. If you are here . . . I dearly hope you enjoy. 🥰

Should feel different, shouldn’t it? Label stickered where one never existed before. They’re an _item_ now after all. Seeing each other. In each other’s pockets. _Courting_ as Old Nan would call it.

But it’s not different — doesn’t feel different, either. Because they are as they have always been.

 _Together_.

That’s it.

That’s all.

Hand-in-hand strolling down the street. One cooking, the other cleaning; him with soap-sud wrists, her hip bumping his as she dances with a dishcloth next to the kitchen sink.

Laughter in her sun-splashed studio. Him pressing a kiss to her paint-freckled shoulder peeping bare up through the dungarees. Wine in the evenings, coffee-cups sipped slowly alongside the canal.

Warm weight beside her in bed — contours of his body cuddled into her own on nights that are good. Sweat-damp sheets sometimes, still; a cry to the ceiling, fingers flailing to find hers, every tendon in his neck rigid till the balm of a lullaby sends him soft to sleep.

Whispers it into his ear on nights like that, soothes him with the knowledge of all they are, all they’ll ever be —

 _Together_.

That’s it.

That’s all.

*

He picks the flowers on the way back from work. Sansa told him this morning that freesias are a safe bet — but that _anything bright will do_.

Puzzles the windowfront of the florist long enough for the skin of his bent nape to begin to burn in the late spring sunshine. Straightens up, rubs a hand under the knot of his bun, takes a breath.

Little bell chimes softly as he steps into the shop.

Little bell chimes sharply as he steps back out to the street.

Too gaudy in there. Too elegantly-arranged, scent in the air of all he’s left behind: manicured hands and sickly perfume and waxed paper threatening to turn charred from the fat candles set too close to it.

Before, he would have stayed in the shop. Shrunk back into the petal-lined walls, ignored the hammer of his heartbeat. _Endured_ it. But he doesn’t have to do that anymore. He can leave, walk free of it, face the memories it whips up at some other time — or never at all, if he likes. He has that power, that _right_.

All well and good, that; but he is flowerless now and he _needs_ some flowers. A bunch, a few stems at least. Not expected or demanded — Sansa has already said so much — just feels important to him. No. It _is_ important that he has some to take with them on Sunday. A gesture, a small token at least.

Jon almost gets his phone out, then. Thumb itching to press the one name in his contacts with an emoji by it — a twee little primrose love-heart that still makes him blush — lift it to his ear, listen to the balm of her voice. But she’s probably busy. Painting. Dancing. Making tea. Frowning at an email. Huffs a laugh to himself at that thought.

Can see the furrow in her brow now, hear the rasp of scarlet hair as she shakes her head, rolls her eyes at some inane point her agent has made, fingers flying double-quick at the keys to refute it.

Finds himself swaying in the street now, smiling. People must think he’s a little sun-crazed; but he doesn’t mind. His head is full of sunny shades: strawberries, lemons, red, yellow — _yellow_. Smile gets a bit wider.

Makes his way to the street-stall that’s caught his eye, leaves the charred-paper florist well behind.

*

“Do you think she’ll like them?”

Sansa smiles. “She’ll love them, Jon.”

“They’re not too… plain?”

Blots her lipstick carefully. “They’re perfect.”

“You’re sure?”

Looks up from the mirror, meets his worried eyes. “I’m sure.”

“Okay.”

Turns toward him now, puts a light hand on his shoulder — then sweeps it up the side of his neck, cups his cheek gently. He leans into it gratefully.

“Are you ready?”

He nods, exhales. “I think so.”

“It’s going to be fine,” she says softly. “I promise.”

Gazes lock together for a moment. Her hand on his cheek still, thumb rasping back and forth gently. He touches the back of her hand, then pulls it toward his mouth, presses her fingertips to his lips. Kisses them — one by one — eyelids slipping shut fleetingly. She watches him patiently.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “I’m ready.”

*

It’s been with him all week: _today_.

Sunday.

First Stark family dinner in — in _forever_.

Can still pick out the shapes of the last one he went to in his mind, the shades.

Rough-hewn table, plates scattered artlessly upon its top. Yorkshire puddings. Wine glasses. Rickon holding his own cup up, getting giggly-drunk off Ribena. Dogs dashing everywhere till a stern word from Ned quiets them — the same Ned later feeding them scraps and getting told off by Catelyn. Robb with an arm slung round Jeyne. Arya fighting for the last roast potato with Bran. Theon appearing from somewhere. Old Nan nodding off in the armchair, cup of tea that Sansa made her cooling at her side…

Jon looks down at the bunch of flowers in his hand now.

Daffodils. New beginnings. Love. Joy. Happiness. Everything the Starks have ever been to him — everything they’ll ever and always be.

“Sans — ”

But she’s there before he can even ask the question.

“They’re perfect,” she says softly. “They are _perfect_ , Jon.”

Her hand slips to brush against his wrist. He finds her fingers, weaves them between his own.

Breathes again — he _breathes_.

*

Only another ten minutes or so to go on the walk to Mum and Dad’s when he begins to talk. Sansa doesn’t know where it comes from, only knows that she’ll listen. Carefully, gently — let him face whatever memories he feels like facing.

“It wasn’t always — ” Jon sketches a gesture; fingers flailing before tucking back tight between her own. “It wasn’t always _fighting_ and blood and hurt. Sometimes… sometimes it was good.”

Curls her thumb gently round his little finger. “Good?”

“Aye,” he says. “We’d laugh. Go out for dinner. Talk about the future… children. It all seemed so sweet.” Tiny frown flickering across his brow. “Hmm — sometimes.”

Keeps her tone easy, flowing as their footsteps. “Other times?”

“Bad.” Shakes his head, lip lifting a little — as if he’s flinching back from pressing a day-old bruise. “Too much wine or a bad day at work. She’d shout, then. Laughter would die away like it’d never existed. Ever.” Another shake of his head, eyes gritted down to the pavement in confusion. “Was like — it was like she hated me. Really _hated_ me. Everything I did or said only seemed to make it worse.”

Tries to bat down the rage in her belly. Manages it — _just_. “She hurt you.”

“Just words at first,” he says quietly. “Names and threats and swearing. Then she… she stopped talking.”

Lingers there on the air: that absence — that bruise-soaked, rust-streaked absence wordlessly telling of a world of hate and hurt and ache and anguish. A world that dogs him in the day, makes him whimper sometimes at night. A world that he is slowly cutting himself free of with all the help she can muster for him. A world far away from this one they share here, now — _together_.

Wants to catch him up in kisses suddenly, lock her arms round him and hide herself against his chest. But now is not the time for that. He needs her eyes on his own, not frantic hands, lips. Needs something steady: an ocean to look into. Blue and good and all for him.

So she doesn’t catch him up in kisses. She turns to face him instead.

“The flowers are perfect,” she says very softly. “You are perfect, too.”

“San _sa_ …”

Lifts a brow at him. “Ah-ah — no fuss. Okay?”

“No fuss.”

Rolls his eyes; but he is smiling.

That smile stays on his face for the rest of the walk.

*

Asks it again as they cross the road to the house.

Lost count of the number of times he’s asked her if the flowers are okay, if her mother’ll like them. Seemed a good idea back in that street dusty with late sunlight, glimmer of daffodils on the stall, friendly red-cheeked vendor throwing him an extra bunch as a _Friday freebee_. 

Jon carried them home to Sansa carefully, all wrapped up in a pretty lemon-coloured ribbon he found at another street-stall.

Looks at the bunch in his hand again now, worries at his lip.

“You’re _sure_ they aren’t too plain?”

Shaking her head, smiling at him. Her sunny little smile falls when she sees that his has, too. Frowning at the flowers, scuffing the heel of his boot across the pavement.

“I should have just got some freesias,” he mutters. “You _told_ me to get some freesias — not a bunch of fucking daffodils.”

Tries to shoot a little sarcasm into his tone; but he fails. There’s a wildness to his voice, a dip of despair pitting its very edges. She picks up on it in less than a heartbeat. Lifts a hand toward him.

He flinches reflexively. He can’t help it sometimes. Expects something sharp to land: a slap, a scratch, a stinging word — but it never does. Open hand, closed fist. But not with her. _Never_ with Sansa. Always soft. She’s always soft with him. Fingertips, a trail of a touch. Little shivers left in the wake of them — nothing that stings, sears, _scars_.

Leans back into the soft palm cradling his nape. Breathes through his nose, then blinks open his eyes. Finds her own; an ocean — steady and blue and good.

“Have I fucked up?” he asks quietly. “Am… am _I_ fucked up?”

“Never,” she says fiercely before the whisper has even left his lips. “ _Never_ , Jon.”

*

Sansa feels Jon tense as they turn — hand-in-hand — up the little path weaving through the front garden. She rasps her thumb across the back of his hand.

“It’s going to be fine,” she says softly. “I promise.”

He nods, exhales. “Okay.”

Little bell chimes softly as she rings it.

Dad calls him _son_ when the door opens, wraps him up in a one-armed hug. Sansa sees the wash of happy tears in her father’s grey eyes; tries to blink away her own.

Mum beams at the flowers. Rattles off some rejoice at spring and sunshine and yellowness and _Jon they’re perfect, oh they are perfect, honey_ and pecks him on the cheek and then gives into the urge to smother him in a hug every bit as fierce as the one he’s just escaped from. Pulls back, laughing as she dabs the tears from her cheeks.

Robb hooks an arm round his shoulders and gets him a beer and Bran offers several philosophically-clouded jokes that nobody understands or laughs at and Rickon tells him to _shut up, weirdo_ and grabs Jon’s hand and tows him into the garden to show him the new den he’s just made behind the apple tree.

“Good to have the young man home.”

Sansa turns toward Old Nan sitting tiny and toothless in her armchair, smiles. “It is.”

“Took his sweet time about it.” Watery light to Arya’s eyes belies her jokey tone. She steps up to Sansa’s side, touches her arm. “How is he?”

Looks out to him: sun-dappled, squatting down to admire Rickon’s lattice-work. “Better.”

“He’ll get there,” says Dad and they all nod. “I’m proud of you, sweet one.”

Sansa blinks at him, a little surprised. “Me?”

“Aye.” Ruffles her hair like she’s knee-high again. “ _You_ , Sansa Stark.”

Muffled mock-heave from Arya. “Jesus — how many wines have you _had_ , Dad?”

“Just the one.” Winks at them conspiratorially now. “Let’s have some more, eh?”

“No more wine — it’s champagne o’clock!”

They turn together at the pop, find Mum stood there. Froth on her apron, a cork clattering against the ceiling. Smile on her face breaking to a laugh joyful and bright as spring — as the bunch of daffodils spilling sunshine in their vase on the tabletop.

*

Full — food, family, _freedom_.

His cheeks hurt from smiling, his sides ache from laughing.

Late spring night, a balm to the air. The moon is a silver thumbprint on an ink-splash sky and the world is good. Hums low in his throat, happily.

“She liked the flowers.”

Her voice half-cut between a laugh and a smile. “She _loved_ the flowers, Jon.”

“I had a really nice time,” he says softly. “With them… with you.”

“Me too.”

They pause beside the canal, watch the water shine like metal, slip away, swell anew. He turns to face her, his thumb ebbing over her mouth. The cherry-red lipstick has faded now, but her eyes are bright as ever. An ocean: blue and good and his to behold.

“Sansa?”

“Yes, Jon?”

Breath and lips and words meeting now: softly, softly.

It’s the smallest kiss.

Soft and sweet — a sign of everything that is yet to come.

Soft and sweet and —

“Perfect.”

He smiles against her murmuring lips. “Mm — so are you, Sans.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> 
> 
>   
> **1** more chapter still to come. I always find happy endings and the road(s) to healing very rewarding to write; but in this case, even more so. Taking my time with this little fic—hope those of you who might still be reading think things are turning out all right! Take care, honeys. ❤️  
>  _— update: marking this as complete for now [November 2020] but maybe one day the planned final chapter will follow! x_


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